Light 'em, Fight 'em
by HomelandObscurity
Summary: Former Marine, Peeta Mellark, had yet to accept his new life. After a chance meeting in the woods, his outlook begins to change. The search for redemption, learning to understand, as well as discovering the difference between falling and letting go. Hunger Games AU, slightly OOC. Remaining as accurate as possible. Rated M for language and future potential relationships.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first published story, and I would love to find a beta who's interested in this fanfic. Thanks for taking the time to read. Leave a review if you have any feedback for me. I really appreciate it (:**

**Keep in mind ***text*** indicates a flashback/memory. Italics are for emphasis or to show internal dialogue. I don't own these characters, or any part of The Hunger Games. Unfortunately **

* * *

Chapter One

The car horn barely registered over the music playing in his ears. He'd seen the car well before the driver had seen him. He had noted the distance and speed of the oncoming vehicle and knew within a matter of seconds that stopping was unnecessary. The pace he ran at was all that kept him together in the mornings. His feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm; his music beating in time with the cadence that had become second nature to him years ago. The driver probably thought he was being careless, but it was rather the opposite. He noticed every change in his environment, constant observation, the kind of awareness brought on by repetitious hours of drilling; years of necessity. The man set his jaw and pushed the thoughts out of his mind, choosing to focus on the dull throb radiating from the ankle and knee in his bad leg. _Bad leg_. The phrase left a sour taste in his mouth. Weeks of physical therapy and two surgeries had given him back the mobility that an IED had nearly took from him permanently.

***  
"What do we have?" The gruff voice didn't seem connected to his surroundings, bright lights exploding behind his eyelids. The second voice was less harsh. "Two, both critical condition. Hit by an IED. Private Richards-" Static seemed to fill his ears as his vision began to blacken. None of this made sense. "-trauma to the abdomen and severe blood loss-" The people talking curtly over him continued, although he still couldn't tell who they were discussing. "-no exit wounds. Corporal Mellark-" Hearing his own name, he attempted to speak but his eye lids merely fluttered and his mouth wouldn't open. "Initial triage showing minor abrasions and superficial puncture wounds covering the left side of the torso, low velocity impact to the lower left leg-" He was losing the fight for consciousness, words becoming incoherent. "-possible nerve damage-" Darkness was engulfing the remains of his vision. "-potential amputation." The last thing he heard before falling unconscious wasn't the last medical statement. He heard tortured screams.  
***

Peeta didn't bother trying to think for the rest of his morning run. The last fifteen or so minutes were a blur as his mind got swallowed by memories. Slipping through the house in silence, he made his way to the bathroom. Off came the running shoes, the USMC issued athletic shorts and tee-shirt. Peeta stepped into the lukewarm shower, wishing the water could rinse his mind clean the same way it did his body. _one-two-three-four four-three-two-one one-two-three-four four-three-two-one._ The slow, methodical drum of his fingers on the shower wall leveled his breathing. He'd been home nearly four months now. Back in the states for six. This wasn't him, this tightly wound mess. All rough edges and darkness. Running a hand over his head, he noticed his hair for the first time since he'd arrived home. His hand wasn't brushing over the short buzz cut that he'd been accustomed to for the past eight years. It was actually running _through_ his hair, something he hadn't been able to do since he was wide-eyed boy in high school. It reminded him of the naïve dreamer he once was, consumed by the idealistic wish to serve his country, ready to take on the world. Clenching his jaw, Peeta realized how far he'd come from being that boy.

Esprit de corps. Pride in oneself and one's unit. Something that was once essential to his daily life was becoming more difficult every day now. What had he done worth being proud of? Getting his fireteam killed? Leaving his brothers behind? Being discharged from the corps because of his leg? Having to move back to his parent's house at the age of 26? He had no pride in his life anymore. Only a scarred body, unstable mind, and broken soul.

He made a conscious effort to avoid the mirror as he stepped out of the shower. He didn't need a reflective surface in-order to remember the near two dozen marks left by shards of shrapnel, covering the broad expanse of his left side and arm, from shoulder to hip. He didn't need to look down in-order to remember the inch long scar left by the piece that had lodged in his lower leg, resulting in several fractures. The VA doctors said that he was lucky.

***  
"Had you been any closer to the IED, the shrapnel that hit your leg would have shattered the bone on impact. Or even worse, could have caused nerve and blood vessel damage. A centimeter or two different and you would have lost your lower leg entirely." '_Or even worse,'_ he had thought, mimicking the doctor's words with a scowl. '_I could have taken the one that hit Richards in the stomach. The one that hit McCormick in the neck. The impact that slammed Clay into the concrete wall. I could have gone in first. I could have made things different. Those were my brothers and they had trusted me. Clay's daughter had been born two days earlier. Richards was barely 19. Who gives a fuck about my damn leg?'  
__***  
_  
The beep of his watch told him that it was now six o'clock, leaving him fifteen minutes before he would be needed in the family bakery. Peeta quickly got changed into jeans, work boots, and a black polo that bore the embroidered Mellark Bakery logo on the chest. His dog tags were cold but familiar against his skin, reminding him of the life he used to live. Reminding him of the people he had to live for. He owed them that much.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

When Peeta first returned to working at the bakery, a month after he came home, his father suggested he resume his old routine. Spend his morning in the back decorating cookies, cupcakes, and any special orders the bakery had. Work the front for the early afternoon rush, then use the evening to make the dough and finish other prep work for the following day. It would be much like his schedule from middle and high school, except now instead of school, he had physical therapy several times a week.

Peeta wasn't ready to work the front. The friendly and easy-going charm that had made him so wonderful with customers before was absent. He was perpetually on edge, and had a difficult time remaining calm when things became busy. Though he did his best to hide it, his father knew him too well.

* * *

His second day back at work happened to fall on a Sunday and when the after-church-rush flooded in, his mind began register the surroundings as if he were still in the desert cities. The store was starting to border on full as families began sitting at tables or joining the line, most engaged in animated conversations. Children pushed and shoved through the crowd to stand before the displays. Then the scene began to change. The customers' voices didn't seem to make sense, the cacophony became overwhelming. He couldn't see what was happening across the room, making it increasingly difficult to focus on the orders people were placing. The repeated opening and closing of the door, always followed by the chiming of a bell, left him jumpy. Eyes scanning the room and muscles tense, Peeta bit back the urge to react defensively. His father came to the register a minute later. One of the other employees, a girl named Annie, had fetched him when Peeta stopped responding to the customers and her attempts to have him repeat the orders. The elder Mellark slowly approached his son, whose eyes had glazed over and whose knuckles were white from grip he had on the marble counter.

***  
The bazaar consisted of many make-shift stalls crammed together between rows of mud houses. His squad was moving through the crowd on the edge of the marketplace, a narrow road lined by the higher walls of two-story buildings. A squawk over the radio told him the other two squads were approaching their respective positions. The men in Peeta's squad rounded another corner, and after about fifty yards they split into fireteams. The local group of insurgents they had tracked down was reportedly hunkered down somewhere in the complex that the troops now surrounded. A short command over the radio and the raid began. Peeta took point, Clay to the left, McCormick the right, and Richards in the rear. Their section of the complex was two rectangular buildings, connected by high walls to create a sort of courtyard. The dim hall led into a sparse common room which, once searched, brought them back outdoors. Advancing around a pillar on the northwest side of the yard, Peeta knew something was wrong. The reports weren't incorrect. They had taken time to survey the entire complex before the mission began. They should have found the insurgents by now. It was only moments later that he saw one of the other fireteams emerge from the southern building. His team began to advance, spread a bit further to secure the area. The remaining team was searching the second floor of the building and just as he was about to radio-  
***

A hand placed gently on Peeta's back brought him out of his memory. The elder Mellark had come to stand next to him and spoke quietly, assuring his son that they were in the bakery, that he was safe. Jerking his hands from the counter, Peeta stumbled back a few steps. It felt as though there wasn't any air left in the room and the urge to leave was overpowering. Three long strides brought him to the side door, his means of escape.

He couldn't escape though, not really. It had only been three months since his injury and a month since his second surgery; as much as he hated it, he was still reliant on crutches for more than short distances. Peeta realized that said crutches were leaning against the back counter, but by then he had reached the end of the back porch. Instead of turning back for them, he sat down on the stairs. He sat there, head in hands, for nearly half an hour before he could face returning to the bakery. It had been three months since that Sunday, and Peeta resigned himself to only working in the kitchen.

* * *

Peeta descended the stairs, mentally preparing himself for another tedious day. It was a quarter past six and the bakery was bustling like always. He dropped on to his stool at the work table, from which he was able to see the entire kitchen, as well as most of the store front. From the steely look on his mother's face, he knew the day wasn't going to improve any time soon.

"Honestly, Ryen, squirrels could have finished this order by now. Do you hear me? Squirrels. Why I even bother paying you is beyond me." Her thinly veiled exasperation was obvious to everyone within hearing distance.

"Yes, mother, I'm sure they could have, but that would be against health codes." The spatula hit his older brother, Rye, square in the back.

"Don't give me sarcasm; just do your damn job." Rye was lucky it was only a spatula; they'd certainly had worse growing up. Mrs. Mellark wasn't exactly known for her maternal side.

"The last pan will be cool enough to pack up in a minute so just chill, alright?" Their behavior wasn't new, but it managed to irritate him. Even before he had enlisted, Peeta had been quiet. He had been soft-spoken and good-natured. He took it upon himself to keep the mood light and Rye out of trouble. As kids, when Rye had smarted off to their mother it had worried him. Since he'd been home, it wasn't worrisome; it was irksome. Being quiet was different now; he could only be described as reserved. Rye and Annie alternated trying to engage him, cracking jokes and making polite inquiries about his day. He brushed them off, saying that he needed to focus on his work. Fortunately, the repetitious nature of frosting cupcakes and cookies filled the remainder of his morning. Cake decorating swept away his afternoon. Everything seemed to be swept away lately.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry if you don't find this chapter particularly entertaining, it was more to give you a feel for where he is as a character. We get to meet Katniss in the next chapter, so there's something to look forward to. For the first time in my life, I'm going to let the story speak for itself and not try to explain it in my silly notes. Thanks to everyone who has read/favorited/followed thus-far and a mega-thanks to everyone who has reviewed. (: As always, review with any feedback you'd like to share-good or bad, I can take it. **

**I don't own The Hunger Games, or anything related to it. In case you were wondering.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Here it is-Peeta and Katniss meet. Big thanks to everyone who has followed/favorited/etc. Even bigger thanks to everyone who has reviewed. As always, review with your thoughts/feedback/ideas/opinions/etc. I love hearing what you think, the good and the bad. Sorry if there are any errors in my writing, since I still need to find a beta. I don't think I'll be able to post the next chapter until Monday because I'm off for a major birthday weekend. **

**Oh, and I don't own The Hunger Games. I don't even own a car, at the moment.**

* * *

Chapter Three

He didn't usually go through the woods, but road construction had progressed over the last week. It now blocked the course of his regular morning run, making the detour necessary. Not that he really minded. After years in the desert, running in the forest was a welcome change.

It could hardly be considered a path. More of a dirt trail-littered with leaves and needles, winding through stands of oaks, birches, and pines. Peeta hadn't been out in these woods since he was young. At first it was only the rare afternoon that he and his brothers could slip out and play. Then in high school, he began sneaking away from the bakery early in the morning to draw. Art was a "waste of time" according to his mother. Trying to sketch at home led to smack upside the head, while the piece in question ended up burning in the fireplace. So he sought refuge elsewhere, and the trees held his secrets. Years had passed but his feet seemed to remember, carrying him to the outcropping of rocks he once considered his own.

He had just finished picking his way through the particularly thick clump of trees that hid his old sanctuary, thinking fondly of the peaceful sunrises he used to have to himself, when an arrow flew through the air, thudding into a knot on the trunk of a tree mere inches to the left of his head. The old memories vanished and Peeta dropped into a crouch, scanning the immediate area.

"Holy shit! Do you not know how watch where you're going? For fucks sake, I could have hit you." The voice was coming from a petite woman, who was now stalking towards him, bow in hand. Upon realizing that he wasn't in immediate danger, Peeta stood. The woman let go a string of curses as she yanked the offending arrow free. He didn't remember having ever seen her, and she didn't look forgettable. Between the olive of her pants and the brown leather of her boots and jacket, she had blended into their surroundings before. She spun around to face him, hands on hips.

"You're lucky I'm such a good shot." Peeta, who had been speechless, found his voice. He knew she must have been just as startled as he was, but her berating tone had him on the defensive.

"Who are you? And what're you doing here? And why the hell do you have a bow?" She drew herself up to her full height, which still left her a few inches shorter than him, and raised her eyebrows in a defiantly questioning way.

"Excuse me but none of that is any of your goddamn business." They stood there, staring each-other down for several long seconds. He felt locked in place by her piercing eyes. Never before had he seen grey eyes, nor any eyes for that matter, that were so expressive. He could see the emotion in her eyes, but was struggling to decipher it when she spoke again. "So what, that's it? Burst in on my target practice, nearly get yourself killed, and then ask me a bunch of idiotic questions? How about a 'I'm sorry for being such an oblivious dunce, Katniss.' Hmm? Nothing?"

"I don't think you're going to get that apology._ You're_ the lunatic playing Robin Hood. No one is supposed to be here."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, Mister I-own-the-woods, but I've come here almost every day for years. Not once have I _ever_ seen you." Neither had realized how close together they had stood until he took a step away. He leaned his back against a tree, arms still crossed in front of his chest.

"It's Peeta." He ran a hand through his blond hair. "I've just... I've been... away. For a while actually." A morning breeze swept through the distance between them, carrying away the remains of their dispute. Just a few minutes earlier they had stood much closer, glaring into each others' eyes; the intensity had been palpable. While some tension still remained, at least now Peeta could think straight. The woman-Katniss, she'd called herself Katniss-had moved to sit on the nearest rock. There she perched, rolling her bow between her fingers.

"What is that supposed to mean, 'away'?" He had assumed it would be obvious; he was wearing his usual USMC physical training gear. As far as he knew, that wasn't the only give-away. The town wasn't particularly small, but his family's business was frequented by many of the town gossips. Within days of his return, nearly everyone he had met while growing up had stopped in to say hello, along with a multitude of complete strangers who had just been curious. Returning from deployment wasn't unusual in the area, considering their proximity to several military bases. It was the circumstances that made his personal life into a public spectacle.

"Four tours overseas-three in Afghanistan and one in Iraq." He said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Oh." Her voice had lost its snarky edge. "Well... welcome back, I guess. Must be nice, being home." She seemed hesitant, unsure of how to handle the non-hostile situation.

"Sure, although a lot of things have changed." After a half-hearted shrug, he looked her up and down. Desperate to change the subject, he asked his own question. "What *are* you doing out here?"

"This is where I practice." It was obvious from her tone that she'd intended for that statement to end the conversation but his raised eyebrows prompted her to continue. With a heavy sigh, she did. "I grew up playing in the woods. My dad took me hunting on his days off, and I fell in love with archery." She slung her bow over her shoulder to rest with her quiver, and lightly jumped down from her perch. "I found this place a few years back and liked how secluded it was. Since then, it's been where I practice." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking vaguely uncomfortable, before she spun on her heel to walk away. After a few steps she turned back, her silver eyes meeting his light blue. Since coming home, he hadn't been particularly interested in catching up with the people he knew, let alone meeting new ones. She seemed as disinterested as he typically was, which caught him off guard. For a moment, he lapsed into his old, more sociable self. His features softened and he gave her a half-wave.

"I guess I'll see you around, Katniss." She bit her lower lip while giving him a brief once-over, then let out a soft laugh and shook her head.

"I doubt that, Peeta." Before he could respond, she silently slipped into the trees and disappeared. Brows knit together; he put in his ear buds and laid back on a large, flat boulder. He interlaced his hands behind his head and began to ponder the strange encounter. She said that she loved archery, and that was the reason she had been there. This spot had been his sanctuary years ago, the place he could escape to and work on his art. The thing he had loved. Could he begrudge this woman her own sanctuary? She was right, he had no technical claim on the outcropping. Another cool breeze swept over him and rustled the leaves on the ground. If this had been a few years ago, he would have his sketch book in hand. He would be diligently capturing the start of autumn. The way leaves had started to hang off of trees before they fell, or how their edges curled as they dried on the ground. Perhaps he would be drawing her delicate features. The curve of her jaw leading up to her neck, the slight slope of her nose, the quirk of her lips, and the intricacy of her braided hair. Would he still trying to puzzle out her eyes?

His leather-bound sketch book sat tucked between his folded duffel and a stack of MCCUU shirts, in the back of his closet. Peeta had brought it with him on every deployment, his father had given it to him just before his first tour. Despite having owned it for years, only the first few dozen pages bore artwork. Desolate landscapes and weary soldiers had been his only subjects for months at a time. There was one that he was fond of. It was on the Fourth of July, two years prior. They had been given a few hours off base and while in town he'd seen it-a dozen children in what passed as a schoolyard, kicking around a somewhat-deflated soccer ball. The enthusiasm that the children had for their pick-up game of soccer-football, it's only soccer in the States-made it even more enjoyable to watch. A few of the guy were even able to join in. Peeta had pulled out his book and pencils, wanting nothing more than to immortalize that pleasant afternoon in charcoal. He'd only bothered with a handful of pieces since then. Upon his return, Peeta had stashed the book away and forgotten about; his weeks at home playing out as if the same five activities ran on a loop. _sleep-run-work-physical therapy-work-repeat._ He realized that even though he'd been home, he hadn't really come back. He couldn't help but wonder _what was he doing?_

A soft beep from his watch caused him to jump to his feet. It was his day off, but he still had a physical therapy appointment. He wasn't about to let day dreams of hobbies and pretty girls make him late.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The party weekend has left me a bit behind and slightly stilted, but hopefully you'll enjoy none the less. Mental hugs to everyone who's reading/following/favoriting, and most of all- reviewing. Keep the feedback coming, because it truly helps. **

**The Hunger Games belongs to Suzanne Collins, not me. If it was mine, I wouldn't live in Alaska.**

* * *

Chapter Four

The days passed slowly since that morning in the woods. Peeta continued to run through the forest, despite the road-work having finished. He found himself stopping by the rocks every time. Whether it was to spend a few minutes in that comforting place, or in hopes of seeing Katniss again, he wasn't sure. He told himself that his intentions were irrelevant. It had been a week and a half, and she had yet to reappear. If it weren't for her subtle tracks and the cleared spaces where she must have set her belongings, he could have convinced himself that he had made her up. It would be less bewildering if she had been a figment of his imagination. Peeta began to look forward to his arrival at the outcropping; each day, he hoped in vain that she would be back. This girl, when all he knew was her name, and the one thing that she loved to do, she was just... beautiful. Intense. But most importantly, she was intriguing. He had to know more, find a way to know her and learn about her. To do that though, he had to know where she had gone. Even when he tried to stop thinking about it, he still felt perplexed; why hadn't she come back?

The evening after they met, once the house was still and silence had fallen, Peeta went to his closet. It had seldom been opened during the past eight years; the large oak doors were stiff, but a solid tug on the brass handles proved sufficient. They swung open and he gripped the wood. He had tried to prepare himself for this, but the sight still stung. His dress blues, service uniforms, utility uniforms, and tactical vests hung orderly before him. Lined up on the floor were several pairs of low-quarters and boots. The four shelves on the right housed his packs, shirts, boot socks, gloves, and covers. On a shelf above the hanging rod sat his helmets, camelback, canteen, and the other bits of gear. For months at a time, these were his only possessions. A pang of longing ran through him as he remembered when his situation was much more simple. The next task. The next mission. Every decision had been made with a purpose and each day had meaning. He had always known exactly what to do and where to go. '_Civilian life shouldn't be this confusing. Things shouldn't be so complicated when there isn't anything important at stake.'_ His fingers skimmed over the material-across the hanging clothes before reaching the shelf of shirts-they drifted down the stack, stopping once he felt leather. He removed the book from its former resting place. The weight of his sketchbook was familiar, and the envelope containing his pencils was still taped to the front cover. He tucked it under his arm, closed the closet doors, and moved to sit on the foot of his bed.

There he sat, book in hands, for several minutes. Puzzling over whether he had hidden his art, or been hiding from it. He turned the book over-once, twice, three times-before letting go a long, pensive sigh. He deposited the book on his nightstand; giving it a last look, but not opening it, before he turned off the lights and went to sleep.

* * *

Four days passed before Peeta picked his sketchbook up again. Each time he thought about it, he found something more important or productive to do. Ever since he had been back, he tried desperately to stay busy. However, there had been a lull in the shop and the next round of pastries for him to frost had only just gone into the ovens. His father insisted that he take a break, so he wiped his hands on rag, hung up his apron, and ascended the stairs.

Sitting on his bed, with his back resting against the wall, Peeta hesitantly undid the ties that had held his book closed. '_This isn't a big deal. Just open the damn thing.'_ He pulled back the cover, letting his gaze rest on the first page.

**To my son, Peeta Mellark. Be proud of your achievements, be courageous in what lays before you, and don't give up on what you love. I bless you in the heroic, worthwhile, and difficult task of becoming yourself. Come home safely to us. Love, Dad.**

He sat there, letting a spectrum of emotions wash over him. A wave of sentimentality was first, as he remembered a time when his world was bright and full of possibilities. Fresh out of training, he was on the first of several planes that would take him away-to Iraq, to a whole new world. He had held this book open in his lap for hours, running his fingers over the words left by his father. He'd had such high hopes. The tide came in, and with it came resentment. He resented himself for being naïve, for not doing enough, not helping enough. He resented being home, being broken, and being alive when others weren't. Part of him wanted to resent his father for having so much faith in him-his mother had never approved of his art or his decision to join the military. The resentment drained away, dragging remorse in its wake. Peeta put his head in hands, fingers gripping his hair. He had abandoned his art, and he felt abandoned by the military. Feeling as though he had disappointed his father, as well as himself, he closed the book. Once he had set it back on the nightstand, Peeta shifted to lay on his back. Several minutes passed; as the remorse began to recede, he stared at the ceiling. If this was what his father had meant by 'becoming himself,' then he wanted no part of it.

* * *

Slowly, he began to look through his sketchbook. Every drawing elicited memories and emotions that he had tried to forget. The memories were still there, vivid and alive. One particular piece, a charcoal of a vacant home, caused him to withdraw from everyone around him for days.

***  
Their squad had been hunkered down in this village for just over thirty hours. It was abandoned by the local people after a group of Taliban swept through. Peeta sat behind several large bags of grain-a substitution for sandbags-and began to re-tie his boots. With that minor task complete, he allowed himself to rest for a moment. Opposite from where he sat was a small home. The family's one room remained neat, despite their absence. The hard-packed earth of their floor had been swept. Their meager dishes were stored on a shelf carved into the mud. The family's bed-rolls and blankets were stacked against the far wall, on top of which sat a child's small, dirt covered teddy. The right eye must have been lost, because in its place was a wood disk had been sewn in. Seams had been re-stitched with mis-colored thread, and it had been visibly patched in four places. Other than the occasional soccer ball, toys were a rarity. He had seen children who played games with sticks, because that was the only thing available. This stuffed animal had been a prized possession, not something easily left behind. Peeta felt sympathy for the bear's owner. He knew that he should be using his break to take a nap, as his squad would be moving out in a few more hours, but he chose instead to sketch out this one-room home. Something about it had drawn him in, and he wanted to remember it. As he was working, he realized it was a reminder of the people they were fighting for. Not just America, and everyone back in the States-no, not just those who would never see this; but also this child-who had no choice but to flee home, and leave behind something very special. This toy was treasured; a child's object of comfort, which might have taken away nightmares and gruesome images that should go unseen. His sketch finished, Peeta packed away his gear, stretched, and made his way towards their make-shift barracks on the other side of the village.

It was only a few minutes later when the gunfire started. When the village began to crumble around them and the dust began to rise. The troops skirted the other buildings until they could get a better shot. Even after they moved, direct fire wasn't an option. A rushed order came from his squad leader, and Peeta fired his M203.

It wasn't until the smoke had cleared, that he could see where his shot had hit. It had done the job, as fire ceased from the opposing side. It had also obliterated one of the buildings. The home that he had drawn, mere minutes before, now lay as a pile of rubble. That family, that child, now had nothing to return home for. They didn't have a home to return to, and it was his fault.  
***

Each night he slept fitfully. Each morning he ran, hoping against hope that the sun would burn away his memories like it did the fog. Each run carried him to the rocks, and she still wasn't there. Each day gave him the courage to look farther into his book, face more of his past. Two weeks after he had first unburied the sketchbook, Peeta reached blank pages.

* * *

**A/N: Remember how I said I wasn't going to explain my writing? Well, I suppose my rules are bend-y. Here's an exemption: the blessing bit from the inscription in the book is actually something my grandmother wrote in a gift for me. Also, an M203 is a grenade launcher that is attached to an M16 rifle. It's commonly held by fireteam leaders in the USMC. Had to ask one of my military guy-friends for that particular detail, but being a weapons fanatic, he was more than happy to help. Next update, hopefully, by the end of the week!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I am so incredibly sorry that the wait has been this long. Between coursework, my personal life, and communication/computer issues it has dragged on far longer than I had anticipated. Fortunately, the next chapter is (mostly) written, and once beta-read, will be up asap. Thank you for your continued support in my first published story. Virtual hugs for everyone.**

**I don't own The Hunger Games or associated characters, nor am I making any money from this fictional wonderland. **

* * *

Chapter Five

The morning air was cool on his face as Peeta slipped out the door, careful to stop it from slamming shut behind him. He inhaled deeply, eager to begin his run. With the volume high on his music, he leapt from the porch and fell into his normal pace. Today wasn't normal though, because for the first time, he left with a small drawstring backpack.

* * *

The night before, Peeta had reached the end of his drawings. While going through the sketchbook, he hadn't thought about whether or not he would get back into art. All he had done was re-experience memories from his several years overseas. Faced with blank pages, he considered his options. He could chuck it into the drawer of his desk, where it would likely stay untouched for weeks. Or he could keep it on his nightstand, with the intention of drawing again sometime soon. He had set it on his nightstand and turned out the light, hoping that sleep would help to clarify his feelings. When he woke, the first rays of light were filtering through the curtains and the day seemed promising. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and climbed out of bed. The last six months hadn't been enough for him to shake old habits and routines. Even without SOP to follow, each morning he would make his bed and square away his clothing. A check out the window was all it took for him to resolve his internal debate. The sky was a dim blue overhead, night not yet completely cleared. Blue fading into orange where light from the rising sun streaked the sky. Most trees still clung to their leaves, and spread beyond his window as an amber carpet. It was against this array of colors that the town was silhouetted. The quiet peace that accompanied dawn had been enough motivation for Peeta to dig a nylon drawstring backpack from the bottom of his dresser. Even with his sketchbook and pencils, its weight was barely noticeable. It was nothing compared to the mass of gear he used to carry with him. He had shoved away the memories that had tried to creep in from the corners of his mind, and quietly descended the stairs.

* * *

Peeta arrived at the secluded rock outcropping and settled himself on the ledge he'd favored as a teenager, removing his ear buds so he could hear the early bird songs. He dug out his sketchbook and pencils, flipping through the pages until the first blank sheet appeared. He let out a breath he didn't know he held before touching pencil to paper. Time seemed to slow as he began to draw the view before him.

They say that when you resume something you haven't done in a fair amount of time, but once knew how to do well, you're able to pick it back up quickly. They say that your body remembers how, even if you're not consciously aware of it. _Like riding a bicycle._ Peeta wondered how much truth that saying actually held. It had been at least six months since he had last drawn, if not more. He was apprehensive, hesitating when the lines didn't feel _exactly_ right. He erased and erased and erased. Smudging and redrawing until the image came alive. He was pleasantly surprised when the shading on a particular detail was accurate, even though he couldn't pinpoint the technique he had used. The vantage point on the hill allowed him to capture buildings and other features of the landscape. This felt right-being here, doing this-it was as though he had never left. He was pondering whether or not to re-work this piece into a painting if he had the time, when a voice called out softly from behind him.

"Whatcha drawing?" Startled at the sudden noise, Peeta dropped his book, pencils scattering. He scrambled to his feet, turning to see who had spoken. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Just curious." To his surprise, it was Katniss. The olive-skinned, grey-eyed girl stood a few feet away, hands raised defensively in the air.

"How long have you been standing there?" He knew his voice sounded accusatory, but Peeta didn't care. His focus was on slowing his rapid pulse and repressing the instinct to fight that accompanied surprise. She stood very still, watching him closely while she lowered her hands.

"Just for a minute." She said, voice steady. Peeta's mind was reeling. This was not how he had expected to see her again. This was not what he had expected to happen when he left the house this morning. Brows furrowed, he considered the situation and the multitude of questions running through his head.

"Have you been watching me?" The words tumbled from his lips, tone no longer harsh, merely confused.

"Uh, I-uhm-no. No. _Definitely not._" Katniss seemed taken aback by his question. A blush crept up her neck, and as it spread to her cheeks he absent-mindedly considered how innocent she looked with her face tinged pink. It was the emphasis on her final words that drew his mind back to the present and the baffling encounter.

"Then why are you sneaking up on me in the middle of nowhere?"

"I wasn't sneaking. I just wanted to know what you're drawing." She went stiff, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. Peeta ran a hand through his hair, not breaking eye contact with her.

"I was alone in the woods and then suddenly you're behind me, looking over my shoulder. I'd call that sneaking." It was apparent that Katniss didn't take kindly to his accusation. Her hands settled on her hips and her eyes narrowed.

"Look, it's not like I come out here to stalk you," she said, "_You're_ the one that inconveniently runs through _my_ practice range every morning. I wasn't about to stop just because some random ass guy keeps showing up."

"That answered none of my questions." He took a moment in an attempt to sort out what was happening. He had been drawing, then she had appeared. He hadn't heard her coming, though. She must have been practicing, but that didn't make sense because he had sat here for quite a while now. As he replayed her words in his mind something caught his attention. "Wait, how did you know I've been through here every morning?"

"You're starting to make me sound psycho." She pressed her lips together as a blush once again rose to her cheeks; like she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't have. Several moments passed before she explained, her eyes avoiding his and her words rushed. "I was practicing the morning after we met, and I honestly didn't think you'd be back. Then you did come back, so I left. Which was stupid, because I'm not breaking any rules and I wasted the rest of my practice time by leaving when I did. And then the next morning you were back again-and no offense or anything, but you're loud as fuck. I can hear you coming from like, five minutes away-so I... I just kind of... climbed that tree and waited until you left. After that I climbed back down and finished shooting until I had to leave." She bit her bottom lip, looked him in the eye, and shrugged. "It just kind of... kept happening."

The seconds seemed to draw out into hours between them as Peeta processed everything she'd just said. She had been here, up in some tree. She had come back. She'd been hiding, but still, she had come back. Why had she been hiding? The whole situation was strange. Katniss shifted her weight from foot to foot, looking rather embarrassed. When he had finished thinking, Peeta shook his head and let out a somewhat bewildered laugh.

"I don't make you sound psycho. _You_ make you sound psycho."

"_Hey!_" Her indignation was back in full force. "It worked, didn't it? We both got to keep this place to ourselves and we didn't have to interact with each other."

"Would that have been so bad?" The question hung in the air between them, catching Katniss off guard. Peeta stood in the same spot he had when she'd first startled him, wondering how she'd walked away from their first meeting with the impression that he didn't want to see her again. Hadn't _she_ been the one who said they wouldn't?

"What do you mean?" Her voice was soft again, and Peeta marveled at how quickly it could shift between tones. She had removed her hands from her hips, opting to cross them in front of herself. Except it wasn't in an argumentative way. It looked more like she was hugging herself, waiting for his answer. He took a deep breath, and they locked eyes. Peeta exhaled and let the words fall from his lips.

"I kind of hoped to see you again."


End file.
